|Nietzsche death mask|
Photo: Van Stein
Sedona, ultimately, is an aberration: warm and fuzzy fluff, like cotton candy and lint–a fatuous deviation from a rightful Surreal Bounce destination.
The genuine message manifests via Talia Jones (daughter of Davy, the Monkee), a landscape designer who inadvertently tunes into our mania after a tour of Van Stein’s nocturnes in my Tree House.
“Have you been to Sils Maria?” she asks. “For Nietzsche?”
Nietszche? Nietzsche? Nietzsche!
It hits me, bang: Creativity and madness, God and the devil… Damn! That was Friedrich Nietzsche swirling around my left hand in Sedona, hollering Wake up, wake up, you maniacs–you are in zee wrong place!
We’d gotten side-tracked into a haze of red dust.
But now, some clarity: We must get our butts, pronto, to Switzerland’s Engadine Valley, to the village of Sils Maria, where the Great Thinker summered all through the 1880s, thinking thoughts that had never been thunk before and writing them into great philosophical works about God and The Antichrist before syphilis ate his brain and dispatched poor Fritz into sheer madness.
“I think we meandered,” I explain to Van Stein over martinis in Lucky's.
“Are you calling me a meanderthal?” says Van Stein, shaking his head. “We’re not meandering. Something is beckoning us. Karma-geddon.”
“It’s a someone,” I say. “Nietzsche.”